


It's Always Simple (Until It Isn't)

by nuka_cherries



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Bisexual Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Bisexuality, Character Development, Cullen Pretends He Knows Nothing, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, From Friends to Enemies to Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Gen, House Trevelyan Drama, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Leliana (Dragon Age) Knows All, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Named Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Non-Linear Storytelling At Times, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pride and Prejudice References, Regency Romance in The Time of the Inquisition, Sided with Mages, The Conclave (Dragon Age), Trevelyan (Dragon Age) has Sibling(s), idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuka_cherries/pseuds/nuka_cherries
Summary: A proud eastern Free Marcher and veteran Grand Tourney victor, Adanith Trevelyan never cared for the South. To her understanding, Ferelden was busy enough crumbling under the rebellion. No need to say anything for Orlais, an egotist empire that was spilling needless blood with a civil war.That was, until she had to go in her sister's place at the Conclave at the last minute. Her role, officially, was supposed to consist of quietly staring down her distant family and copying her cousin’s notes. Unofficially, it was also to drink plenty of alcohol and protest for mages to have rights.But instead, that...was not the case.And now, she is the Herald of Andraste and the chosen one to save Thedas.Except, her hand was trying to kill her. And well.She's an atheist.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Anders/Male Hawke, Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Leliana/Morrigan (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 3





	1. Forgotten Journey to the New World

**Author's Note:**

> Playing DAI for the first time and now I have a new idiot daughter named Adanith Trevelyan. 
> 
> Big thank you/shout out to my friend @RustyMilkshakes who has listened to every idea at the most random hours and gave it the final lookover! Y'all check out her fics!!! 
> 
> And a thank you to the bene squad that has dragged me into Dragon Age hell five years ago with Origins, and well. Here I am now.
> 
> Basically, this is a Very canon divergent DAI fic with a human rogue inquisitor with a dash of regency romance and classic Austen pining. This is also my first DA fic! I hope y'all enjoy reading the pendejadas of Adanith Trevelyan as much as I did writing them.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adanith held onto the ribbon and tried to go through her memories one more time. One more time, to the sudden blankness after dinner, to suddenly waking up in a dungeon with agony in her left hand and a broken sky.
> 
> And she still remembered nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow exposition is ANNOYING as FUCK, but we're getting there!!! the more surprising thing is that i actually updated this. honestly.

The trek to the Conclave was long and cold, and Adanith was not prepared for it.

Her father’s green coat was large on her, but it had been the only available winter attire at her disposal. What with Daia taking all her leggings and coats to Orlais for her schooling. On the rare time it was cold in Eastmost, she just changed to her thicker shawl and lit a fire.

Mahanon Lavellan stuck to her shadow, more than he did to Ellana’s. His excuse, aside their lifelong friendship, had been that since Heloise could not come to keep her out of trouble, he was tasked to upkeep the role of protecting Adanith. And that Adanith was not well-travelled like they both were.

Adanith had protested, loudly. Very loudly. But one stern glare and spoken command in Tevene from her mother, and Adanith begrudgingly agreed to oblige.

Though in the ship, she made her reasonings be heard, only to have Mahanon laugh. Maxwell, the damn bastard and her damn cousin, did not back her up and instead only laughed even more. She was the center of attention at her pride's expense. But it was okay.

The silence between strangers on the trip did not last long; two bottles or so of Grey Warden liquor later, Adanith had a party of her companions, and new friends.

The sailing had not taken long, the trip only taking less than a week. For once, the winds were in their favor, according to Malika Cadash. She hailed from the Western Marches, along with Herah Adaar.

Yet Adanith stuck by her truth. She needs no protection, especially from Templars. She could take a Templar on in a fight.

Her medals from the Tourneys spoke for her aptitude in fighting, as did the three preserved sage coronets for her victories. Her name was etched three times on the Celebrant, forever immortalized for her victories.

In a way, it reminded her of the day before the Grand Tourney, when everyone in the Marches and across Thedas arrived in the host city for the event. Where tensions were high but were friendly. Where a fellow Marcher from the East could happily share an ale with a Marcher of the West and unite on friendly ribbing with a Southern traveler.

But now, there was no air of friendly apprehension. Even in approaching the Temple, the lines of Templars and Mages were meters apart in the same direction.

Languages and dialects were different as she walked through the Temple, different sashes wearing different crests. And now, the Free Marcher party was finally seated.

Adanith ate along with her companions as she caught up with the morning gossip. She watched the buzz of activity around the Temple, as chantry sisters walked around and spoke to attendants. Down the corridor was a large group of Grey Wardens, donned in their armor and crest.

Once upon a time, Adanith thought back about how she wanted to be a Grey Warden. She did admire them, their bravery, in a romantical sort of way. There was glory to winning a battle, championing against a Blight. She did feel the need for the call to arms during the Blight, just barely, but the fallout that followed and her life in the East was enough to have her remain. The adventures of the heroes of the Blight, the triumph that came with Dela Cousland over the Archdemon. Her Dela.

Memories of the Eastmost beach had Dela Cousland in them, a small port and a pitstop to travelers headed to Antiva. Teryn Cousland loved her family; the only Trevelyans the Couslands proudly sided with.

It still felt a little surreal that the same girl Adanith and Mahanon had fought alongside in impromptu beach battles as a child was the Hero _and_ Queen of Ferelden. The same friend who slayed the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight also pelted Heloise, Daia and Ellana with fistfuls of wet sand.

Maybe life would be a lot more different had she followed Dela into the Blight.

“Is this a temple or a fortress? There are Enough Grey Wardens here to stop another Blight,” Malika said.

“Speaking of Wardens, I spoke to the other guards. And I heard the King and Queen of Ferelden are on their way,” Herah said. “It's a big deal. It just might be big enough to delay the official peace talks for a while.”

“I would imagine so,” Ellana said. “This is their kingdom, after all.”

“Danith, will Dela even remember us?” Mahanon asked.

The Queen did certainly remember her, genuine pride in her voice as she congratulated Adanith in another victory. Though she ruled Ferelden, Adanith knew that Dela’s heart belonged with the Marches.

“I would hope so,” Adanith said. “Last time I saw her was at the Nevarran Tourney. And that was six years ago.”

“Oh, do you remember when I got to meet the King when I was in Kirkwall?” Ellana asked. “He was visiting refugees along with the Queen.”

“How did you even get in? You aren’t from Ferelden.”

“Oh, I smeared kohl over my eyes and dirtied a handkerchief with my tears,” Ellana swatted at Adanith’s arm.

“Ow!”

“I found him outside, dumbass! I wasn’t pretending to be a refugee,” Ellana answered. “Now, that would be beneath me. I managed to see as he was leaving. I waved, and he stopped by and said hello. I thanked him for his service and told him to send my regards to the queen. Oh, that man. He is _very_ lovely.” 

“I'm more surprised that their Royal Highnesses are not here already,” Malika said. “Highnesses? Majesties?”

“I think it’s Highness,” Herah said. “Even Starkhaven sent someone.”

“Hey Danith, think the prince is here?” Ellana raised her eyebrows.

Adanith glared over ginger ale. “Don't invoke its name,” she said flatly.

Ellana only snickered.

“It's been fun, but duty calls,” Herah stood up. “The earlier I work, the sooner we can get dinner today. Adanith, I'll try to see if I can see you tear a new one into House Trevelyan.”

“I appreciate the support,” Adanith smiled. “Because I definitely need it.”

“I have to go too. We're still on for dinner,” Malika said. “So. See you in a few hours.”

Malika and Herah bid their farewells and went their separate ways in the Temple.

“Danith, where's Maxwell?”

“Fighting our cousins,” Adanith said. “Or something. I don't know, he just wandered off. Said he was going to meet me at the House Trevelyan session.”

“I just hope this Divine Justinia puts her sovereigns where her mouth is,” Mahanon crossed his arms. “For all our sakes.”

“Oh, lighten up,” Ellana said. “You think as a hunter instead of an attendant. Stop worrying so much,” she reached across the table and pinched his forehead. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

Mahanon moved away. “Ella, please. Remember what mother said to us. The outcomes of this event will impact all Thedas. Including our clan. You can’t just expect to be merry while they sit behind their lies and secrets.”

“Ma harel las halamshir var vhen.”

Adanith thought to her limited understanding of elven phrases that she knew from them. Yet none of the words could translate to Trade.

“Dirthara-ma,” Mahanon snapped.

Ellana slapped the back of his arm, no friendliness behind the attempt.

“Enough,” Adanith said, tone firm. The twins always got into some form of spat or another when they were together, and she never liked it. “ _Please_. This is not the time for this. “

“Danith, speak to your shadow. He listens to you more,” Ellana said. “Poke at his conscience a bit.”

With a protest, Mahanon wrenched his arm away from Ellana. “My conscience remains fine,” he spoke. “It’s everyone else who lacks one that I don’t trust.”

Adanith knew that, with his survival of Kirkwall dampening his trust with Templars and the world outside the Eastern Marches. Or in general.

“And I understand your skepticism,” Adanith said. “You have it with good reason. But know that we are here for the mages. We are here for _peace._ Our voice here can make the difference for the mages. And petty infighting will not help us in any way.”

Both twins glared at one another.

“Fine. I don’t like any of it,” Mahanon said. “But fine.”

“Great! Now that’s that! We need to go to the concierge,” Adanith said. “We need to let them know of Elo.”

“I already checked in while you went to get food,” Mahanon said. “Just...go get it done. I'm going to the courtyard to catch some air.”

Mahanon took his leave.

And Adanith's unsure mood only plummeted further.

* * *

The air felt different as Adanith walked to the concierge next to Ellana. Though she was no stranger to seeing the twins fight, this time felt odd. This felt odd.

“Lala, what were you and Maha arguing about?” Adanith asked. “Earlier.”

“Nothing we didn’t fight about already on the ship,” Ellana said. “I told him to relax and not worry, but...he sees it more as a protector than a diplomat. I know how he feels about this entire war. _But_ he is also grumpy. And the man won't know hope if it hit him in the face. So, ignore him.”

Adanith knew that she evaded the question, that there was more to it than just Mahanon’s hesitance.

She had seen him pace in the ship, restlessness in his form but no clear answer from him when she asked what was wrong.

“I don't believe that,” Adanith said.

“Fine. Choose what you want to believe,” Ellana said. “For I can't control it. And as evident as it seems, I can't control my brother's reactions either.”

“It's not a matter of control,” Adanith stopped walking. “It's a matter of patience. Maha has been through a lot. The last thing he needs is more aggravation. We are all here for the same purpose.”

“You worry too much.”

“I do,” Adanith said. “Because I love you both. And you both give me cause.”

Ellana sighed. “Fine,” she shuffled at her feet. “I will be a little more…patient.”

“Thank you, serah. I appreciate it,” Adanith said.

“Of course, you do. You’re you,” Ellana said. “You always see the best in everyone.”

“I don’t. I just expect better,” Adanith continued her pace along the busy hall and towards the concierge desk. “And that’s a lot more different than seeing the best.”

Ellana didn’t answer but reached down to her wrist and squeezed it instead.

* * *

Adanith had handed the parchment with her sister's signature on the back that explained her absence.

The concierge read over Heloise’s note and initialed it. She then quickly amended Heloise Trevelyan’s entry to Adanith Trevelyan in two identical books, a surprisingly simple way of record keeping for the Conclave.

Wow. She expected more.

“You are set to go,” she handed Adanith a folded sash of the Marches.

Then, Adanith followed Ellana as she led her to the rest of the atrium and shook out the sash and draped it over her. It mirrored Ellana's, as with Mahanon's.

“Well, it’s the Marches, alright,” Adanith pursed her lips. “The Ostwick banner...Can't say I'm not surprised.”

She expected Eastmost, which didn't change much of the design except for the bright teal background. She did not have any good feelings about Ostwick, nor for the people in it. Her father despised Ostwick and would try to avoid as much business there as possible. As did Adanith.

She thought of Ostwick, she thought of Evie. And that was too painful to even think about.

“I have an idea,” Ellana said.

Suddenly, she reached to Adanith’s hair and undid her bow with a strong yank. Her bun fell with the action, and now the teal ribbon was in Ellana's hands.

“Hey!” Adanith exclaimed. She caught herself before swearing at Adanith, outcrying at the action. Then she remembered. 

She was in a Chantry.

“You! You...did that! Ella, what was that for?!” 

“I can braid it,” Ellana said. “You baby. What's the need for having your hair up? Will you duel a Templar in the courtyard?”

The thought did cross her mind, but she would not admit it.

“No,” Adanith lied.

Ellana snorted and began working through the strands. Her height was an advantage, and Adanith did not need to squat down as she often had to for Heloise for when she wanted to braid her hair. Youngest, yet tallest. Daia only lacked a few inches to match her stature.

Adanith felt Ellana’s hands work at her hair, pins being plucked out and hopefully not dropped. The braid began almost at the bottom of her head and began going up.

So, a crown braid. Though it was more time consuming, it did keep her hair away in a fight. She used to wear it during the tourneys, her signature Eastmost teal ribbons weaved throughout it. Come to think of it, why didn't she pack more ribbons?

“You better not drop my pins,” Adanith said. 

“For picking locks? In a Temple?” 

“I am not going to pick locks in a Temple. It's...just in case I get locked out.” 

“Liar. Do better,” Ellana tucked the pins into Adanith's hair again. Once finished, she stepped in front of Adanith and tied the ribbon in a double bow to her sash. “Now, when someone asks what the teal ribbon is supposed to represent, you say you are from the town of Eastmost and you still honor your sister city of Ostwick,” Ellana concluded. “It will grab attention.”

“Shit city, you mean,” Adanith snorted. “But thank you, Ella. It's oddly...sentimental of you.”

Ellana rolled her eyes and flicked at her forehead with her thumb.

“Don't mention it. Come on, let’s go bother Serah Herah,” Ellana said. “Before the rest of this mess hits the road.”

* * *

Adanith didn’t remember feeling anything aside hungover and like her hand was burning when she woke up. She knew dinner got rowdy with the drinks and the cards and the newfound bond between Templars and Mages and diplomats. But she knew she didn’t drink enough to black out and forget her memory—she never pushed her limits like _that_. She didn’t remember much after she went to her room to get the additional playing cards.

And now, everyone was dead. Except for her.

Adanith held onto the ribbon and tried to go through her memories one more time. One more time, to the sudden blankness after dinner, to suddenly waking up in a dungeon with agony in her left hand and a broken sky.

And she still remembered nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i split this chapter in half because it got out of hand. go figure.
> 
> thanks for reading! comments are welcome!


	2. The Fraction of Culpability

With withdrawal, Cullen knew some of the symptoms would come and go. Recovery was possible, and he kept telling himself so. A bad night was a bad night, but so long as he got enough rest, enough water, enough food, and enough sleep, and remained stress free, he would be okay.

All of which he had not gotten enough.

First, it had been of excitement. A chance of peace, a chance of unity. With the fighting temporarily coming to a halt in the rebellion, the tension in the air had changed to anticipation.

The Conclave showed promise, and he had never seen so many different groups and factions of Thedas in one place. It was a chance of reunion too. Former Templars turned to the aid of mages, mages who he called friends after the recovery process in Kirkwall. There were rumors of the Champion coming to the Conclave, but he highly doubted Hawke would show up. The King and Queen of Ferelden would show up in two more weeks; or rather, the Queen and King. He knew there was a specific way of addressing them.

Preparations had taken up most of his time, alongside with security. Despite the peace talks and the temporal cease of fighting between both sides, there was still tension about possible skirmishes between attendants.

And well.

The Conclave didn't work.

He had been near the entrance of the upper valley when it happened, when more and more demons fell through the rift. Soldiers were dying left and right, but more were charging ahead to the breach.

"Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift? Well done."

"Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner's doing," Cassandra said.

"Prisoner?"

"Her," Cassandra tilted her head to another member of the party.

Behind her, a woman pulled out two daggers from a dead demon. She sheathed them on her back, then pulled out a health potion and drank it all in one swig.

"I hope you're worth it," he stated.

And she turned around, strands of black hair that had begun to fall out of a crown braid swinging as she did. She had freckled warm brown skin, and a sharp jawline, the brightest gray eyes he had ever seen in his life.

With the back of her sleeve, she wiped away blood from her already broken nose, an old scar gashed across the crooked bridge of it.

She looked him up and down, regarded him with distaste.

"Yeah," she spoke with a scoff. "Me fucking too, buddy."

It was one of the worst days of his life as it was, already gearing to become a fast contender for the worst one in general. But he felt numb. Numbness was his reaction to just about any major distressing moment in life, let it be during the event or months after when he would try and forget everything about it.

But he knew it then.

He hated her already.

* * *

The next time he had seen her was on the ground of the wrecked temple.

He walked up the steps of the remains, feeling debris crunch under his boot. And bones. The unmistakable crunch of bones under charred ruins, the smell of decay and death.

With a shudder, he quickened his pace to where the rift had just been closed.

A skeleton was in pieces across the floor, one body crouched in panic as he kept walking.

_Maker, please…receive them in your Glory._

Coins of different colors and currencies littered the ashen ground. Pieces of cracked tile crunched under boots, the same halls he had walked through.

He neared the location of what used to be the Great Hall, following the flurry of activity and soldiers moving around.

And near the center of the room was the prisoner, crumpled in a heap. The elven apostate, Solas, had barely been getting to his feet when he spoke up

"Lady Cassandra, I managed to stabilize her for now," Solas said. "But she will need to sleep and be treated by a healer. This is a lot of magic for a non-mage to handle."

Cullen blinked. "She's not a mage?"

"Not at all," Solas said. "Yet the strength of her connection to the Fade almost matches mine. In all my travels, I've never seen anything or anyone like this."

"Cullen," Cassandra spoke up. "Can you help me carry her?"

He hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea.

"Her mark is stabilized, Commander," Solas said, almost if he knew his reasoning. "We should get her to a healer as quickly as possible. She will be the only way we can close the Breach."

"Sure," he said.

She was unconscious, no form of noise stirring her even as he picked her up. Her daggers laid on the floor. Even more dirt covered her clothes, hair, blood standing the green coat that was ill fitting on her frame.

A white scarf was tucked into her blouse. He noticed a deep green sash was draped across her, embroidered insignia recognizable as the Ostwick crest of the Marches.

He had remembered seeing multiple sashes like hers, mingling among the Kirkwall group that traveled to the Conclave. The only difference was a teal ribbon that was cinched near the top, tied in a tight double bow like a bootlace.

"I hope she lives," Cassandra said.

"Relax," Varric had spoken. "That's one thing about Marchers. They're always too bitter to die on a foreign shore."

"She's a Marcher?"

"Yup. I could immediately tell by her voice. She's from the East. Waaaaaaay East," Varric said.

"Did she say anything when she woke up?"

"Only that she doesn't remember anything and that she was very drunk," Cassandra said.

A drunk prisoner with a glowing, murderous magical mark on her hand.

"Of course," Cullen sighed.

He delivered her to the destination of a frantic healer who was a touch too loud for the come-and-go headache that pulsed at the back of his head.

The prisoner remained asleep.

And he went back to work.

* * *

He went to the tent and drank more of the coffee that the soldiers always kept around for him for nights like these. It tasted awful, Maker-damned awful, but it helped in keeping awake.

He got a second metal cup, noticing that it was clean, and filled it with the drink. Opening the flap of his tent with his shoulder, he noticed that the town was still quiet, and even in the midnight sky, the breach glowed green, crackling without a sound, like a storm in the distance.

Not that he was planning to sleep much, anyway.

On the nights that their mutual terrors kept them up, Cullen and Leliana would work.

Normally, Cullen hated anyone in his general vicinity or personal space. The only time he let anyone close was in sparring sessions and that was only _if_ he was going easy on them. Which was never. He never let anyone get too close.

In his private life, he did let the occasional person get close. But that was in another lifetime, one that he felt quietly disappear as work took over. Being a Templar was his life, his life was being a Templar. It was his reality until it wasn't.

It was almost the same with Leliana.

She had friends, amazing friends. She was a social butterfly, a natural charm and leader, as kind as she was deadly. She was respected and feared. But she despised _anyone_ in her work space.

And together, they worked in silent comfort.

He crossed the path to Leliana's tent, where she was still sitting and had been sitting since he passed by hours earlier. All her messenger ravens were gone, but the flap was still open for the to return.

Although he was sure she would hear his footsteps, he still lightly knocked on the metal tent pole with his boot.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

Leliana glared daggers into him. With her hood down she didn't miss how red her eyes were.

"Want me to lie?" she asked stiffly.

"If it helps."

"Amazing. This is the best day of my life. It's like everything I knew is suddenly better."

The perception was that Leliana was an elusive person, which was a given considering her role of spymaster.

But whereas Cassandra would express her pain, Leliana would internalize it. Stay quiet, but she would talk and bring it up on her own.

He knew Cassandra was upset. She had been practicing on dummies on the side of the practice field, taking out her aggression and her feelings, and evidently not wanting to talk to Cullen about losing a most trusted mentor.

"Did you see the corpses?"

"I did."

"Nothing is left," Leilana said. "No sashes, no scriptures. Nothing. It was instant. A most sacred place and...this happens."

A wave of fresh dread washed over him. His unsteady grip on his faith had been quietly fermenting for the past five years. Maybe longer, if he wanted to be honest with himself. A silent form of storm, almost like the Breach above him.

_Was this an act of the Maker? Was this what He wanted?_

His faith had trembled, and the events of the day had easily given it the biggest impact yet.

"There are no words that could express how much I lament for your loss."

"I know," Leliana said. "So don't pretend to know them."

"I won't. I can only offer a distraction."

"With what?" Leliana scoffed. "Work?"

He chuckled. "Yes, honestly," he drank from his cup, wincing at the taste. "Or I could talk about my social life."

"You don't have one."

"I don't."

Silence passed between them, night breeze fluttering through the town.

"Screw it, I'm not sleeping and neither are you. So, what do we know?" Leliana asked.

"I would like to ask you that. Cassandra said that the prisoner was... _drunk_?"

Leliana laughed. "First thing she asked for after Cassandra slapped her awake was where her friends were, and if her cousin was okay, and if she wouldn't get kicked out for drinking too much wine."

Cullen blinked. "That's...unexpected," he said.

Was unexpected even the right word? None of this was expected.

"I heard of her address to House Trevelyan. She's the daughter of a mage."

"A mage?" Cullen asked. "But she has no magic aside from that thing on her arm."

"None. But she's proud of her heritage and wanted to work towards peace. Most Holy was impressed by her," Leliana stopped. "Wait. That reminds me."She turned to the desk behind her and opened up a parcel. "We found this on the prisoner."

"What's in it?"

"See for yourself," Leliana carelessly spilled the contents on the desk.

A tube of lipstick, a short kohl pencil, a deck of cards that was worn around the edges and secured with a tight band, a small cordless canteen (labelled "not alcohol") and a journal.

They were...normal. Normal things someone would carry in their pocket.

Behind him, he heard Leliana begin to poke somewhat at the plate of cold food.

The notebook was leather bound, rough scales dyed a deep shade of maroon. He wasn't sure what he was expecting; a hit list, maybe. Instructions on how to detonate a bomb. Anything to incriminate the prisoner for the crime.

Instead, he opened it to find notes.

Some notes were on herbs, on recipes. The entries dated back five months. It was just...normal. Normal notes, normal drawings in the margins. Not resembling a diary, yet not an itinerary. Then the section was labelled as the Conclave and had notes on major figures of notability, including whether they side with the mages or Templars or undeclared.

Then he got to it. A dog eared sheet listed of House Trevelyan. A small note was added to the title next to the list of guests; majority were siding with the Templars.

He recognized some of the names in the journal. Nobles, some last names being among older rosters of the Order. Trevelyan was a hard name to miss when it came to Templars, even harder when it came to the Western Marches.

How it made sense to the Conclave, he found no correlation. What was this? Who was this?

The last major entry had been dated three weeks before the Conclave on a final updated list of House Trevelyan attendees, including predictions on where they stood on the conflict.

Then was the final note beneath it.

_Danith, I love you!_

_You got this baby sister!_

_I'll see you soon!_

_-Elo_

"Any idea of who Elo is?" Cullen asked.

"My best guess is that it belongs to Heloise Trevelyan," Leliana said. "The prisoner's sister. She was supposed to show up at the Conclave, but the concierge in the Chantry said that the prisoner—Adanith—reported in instead. She cited that Heloise was sick with food poisoning and unable to travel."

"I've heard of some of the Templar Trevelyans, but I've never heard of Heloise."

"I have," Leliana said. "She had been looking into suspicious mage deaths around the Marches and been corresponding with Divine Justinia and I about it, alongside Maxwell Trevelyan. They wanted to open another investigation on Ostwick's Circle."

That, he had heard of.

He remembered supervising the process of closing it down and personally supervising the operation of moving the handful of Tranquil mages to a clinic as temporary shelter with a healer. It hadn't been long before he got recruited by Cassandra.

"The Circle was shut down after the Rebellion," Cullen said. "It was the first major one we began to investigate along with their Chantry. Cassandra didn't mention this earlier in the briefing."

"...Cassandra doesn't know this."

Cullen remained silent.

"And she won't know this."

"Leliana…"

"Humor me," Leliana said. "And don't say a thing."

There could be a lecture; a rallying outcry about trying times, about tragedy, about approaching this with a united front, about fighting together as one, about being in the loop for _everything_ between him, Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine.

But instead, he just sighed. He trusted that Leliana knew what she was doing.

"I know nothing," he huffed out a breath.

"Thank you," Leliana said.

"If Adanith didn't do this," the name felt odd on his tongue. "Then that leaves us with the situation of a sole survivor."

"That's what concerns me. I don't think Adanith is guilty of the explosion."

"If she is not guilty, the person or persons who did this could possibly be out there."

"But without the Divine, all of it is for nothing," Leliana said. "Most Holy tries to bring peace, to reform the chantry and to reform for the mages, and this is how the world repays her-"

Leliana exhaled a long shaky breath.

"I'll be fine. Let's keep working."

But he was too tired to argue otherwise.

"I'll bring more coffee."

* * *

Three days had passed. The prisoner was finally awake.

The Inquisition was formally declared.

And Roderick was pissed.

On the other end of the table, Chancellor Roderick was in another extended argument with Cassandra and Leliana. Josephine had barely arrived and greeted him with a sweet smile. How she could spend hours negotiating with nobles was beyond him.

Rather than joining or mediating the argument, she spent time with her notes. It was the right call. They could both intervene, but Cullen knew that when it was Leliana and Cassandra in a team, they had it handled.

"Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine."

"I do not believe she is guilty."

"The prisoner failed, Seeker."

"She almost died!" Cassandra exclaimed. "She is no prisoner, no more."

"Your heretic actions are not helping to preserve the peace we have! The Breach is still in the sky! For all you know, she intended it this way."

"I do not believe that."

"What you believe is not for you to decide."

Cullen frowned and shot a puzzled glance over to Josephine, who looked equally as incredulous at the statement.

How did that make any sense?

"Your _duty_ dare I remind you, _Seeker_ , is to serve the Chantry."

"My _duty_ is to serve the _principles_ on which the Chantry was founded, _Chancellor_ ," Cassandra said. "As is _yours_ , which is failing."

The door opened, rusting metal hinges loud creaking and halting the argument as the prisoner walked in.

Right. No longer a prisoner.

Her hair was pulled up in a crown braid, similar to the same style she had worn when he first saw her. The makeup tin was returned to her, apparently, because she wore it in a similar getup. She wore the scout armor with visible layers of wool underneath, the same white scarf tucked into it.

'At once' must have meant to take her time to get ready. Her tattoo near her eye was dotted, ink matching her makeup. Her eyes were so bright and it was almost impossible to look away.

Fortunately, not much time of the war table meeting was wasted, and her arrival was noticed.

"Arrest her immediately!" Chancellor Roderick commanded the two knights at the door.

Well, he wasn't allowed to do _that_.

Before Cullen could speak up, Cassandra snapped.

"Disregard that and leave us!"

The guards turned around to exit and gave a salute to the War Table.

"Oh, okay," Adanith began to follow too.

Cassandra let out a noise. "-Not _you_ , Lady Trevelyan!"

In silence, Adanith returned to the table.

If Roderick was not angry yet, he had become infuriated.

"You walk a dangerous line, Seeker. You dare disregard my orders?"

"With what authority?" Cassandra challenged. "The Breach is still a threat. I will not ignore it."

"She is still a threat."

" _She_ is not going anywhere," Adanith spoke, voice sharp. "And _she_ is also really damn tired of people talking about her like _she_ is not here."

"Oh," Roderick chuckled. "Oh, killer. You are a killer. You will not be here for long. You _will_ go to Val Royeaux to stand trial for your crimes."

"Me? Stand a fair trial under your authority? Do not mock me. I won't even live to make it to the gates of my cell. You want to see me executed. In fact, I don't doubt you would kill me yourself. You said it in the valley, with plenty of witnesses."

To that, he stayed silent. It was satisfying. So satisfying.

Damn it, Cullen is supposed to hate her.

"She speaks the truth," Cassandra said. "I was there."

"Chancellor Roderick," Josephine finally said. "With all due respect, we have a meeting and you are intruding."

"If I may," Cullen added. "I can call some of my men to accompany you to the exit."

"You dare kick me out of a Chantry?"

"You can surely appreciate the effort to help us preserve the peace," Cullen smiled.

Adanith couldn't hide her smile, and Leliana cleverly sipped at her cup of water to hide hers.

Roderick huffed. "This isn't the end," he turned and pointed to Adanith. "You are blasphemous and heretic. You are guilty as sin. I will have you on trial."

"Pointing is rude in a church," Adanith said.

Roderick finally left.

"Well...That was interesting," Josephine said.

Adanith looked thoughtful. "Blasphemous and heretic…Would you believe that's actually one of the nicest things anyone has said about me?"

Cullen could feel himself smile, but only just barely. He's supposed to dislike her, damn it.

"I see you got your supplies back," Leliana smiled. "You look nice."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks. And well, considering I was in a three-day coma, I wanted to look decent," Adanith said. "And I also got lost on the way back. Twice."

"Well, we are glad you made it. And with the Chancellor gone, we can get started. I start with introducing Lady Adanith Trevelyan to the Inquisition," Cassandra turned to her. "You've met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces."

Up close, Adanith almost matched Cassandra in stature.

"It was only for a moment on the field. I'm pleased you survived," he said.

"This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat."

"I've heard much. A pleasure to meet you at last," Josephine smiled.

"And of course, you know Sister Leliana," Cassandra said.

"What's your role?" Adanith asked.

"My position here involves a degree of…"

"She is our spymaster."

"Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra."

"Pleased to meet you all," Adanith kept her arms crossed. "So...this is an Inquisition. I've never been part of an Inquisition before."

"The beginning stages of one," Josephine said. "As of this morning, the Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically."

"That didn't take long," Adanith snorted.

"The remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you," Josephine said.

"Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt," Cassandra shook her head.

"Shouldn't they be busy arguing over who's going to become Divine?" Cullen asked.

"Oh, they are," Leliana said. "The Chantry can multitask. I can attest to that."

"They are also very frightened," Josephine said. "Some are calling you, Lady Trevelyan, to be the Herald of Andraste."

Adanith blinked.

"The _what_?"

"That…I did not know," Cullen said.

"The point is, everyone is talking about you," Leliana said. "It's not bad for us."

Adanith let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, I'm no herald of anything," she shook her head. "Particularly Andraste's."

"Lady Trevelyan, you're a symbol of both hope and intimidation...And well...I have not stopped or encouraged the rumors. People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you're that sign," Leliana said. "And to others, a symbol of everything that's gone wrong."

"Well, I'm no stranger to that, at least," Adanith said.

"I know I already asked this, but...Do you remember anything else from the Conclave?" Leliana asked.

"Still the same as before. I went to the House Trevelyan session, lectured them about mage rights, then proceeded to get very drunk with my friends. I know I went to get a deck of cards…that was the last I remember."

"Forgive my wariness," Cullen began. "But your mother is a mage."

"She is, yes," Adanith said.

"Could that have anything to do with your mark?"

"If getting drunk after a terrible family reunion suddenly awakened magical powers, I think I would have found out a _very_ long time ago," Adanith remarked. "And before you ask, my sisters have no magical abilities either."

"At all?"

"Commander Rutherford, Heloise is thirty-one and Daia is twenty-nine. And ten minutes older than me. There is nothing there."

"I spoke to Solas about the mark," Cassandra said. "And without a doubt, the Breach is connected to the Fade, and so is the Herald's mark."

"Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help," Leliana concluded.

"Leliana, I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well," Cullen said.

"What could the Templars possibly do to a Breach?" Leliana asked.

"Templars could suppress it," Cullen said. "I was a Templar. I know what they're capable of. With the resources, with the training, it would be enough."

"Mm. Templar training," Adanith said. The words were spoken with distaste. "A handful of Templars trying to close a massive breach would be like throwing a glass of water into a forest fire."

"She's right, Commander. We need power. "Fighting magic with magic sounds like a better option. Enough magic poured into that mark–" Cassandra began.

"It would absolutely destroy us all," Cullen said.

"That's pure speculation!" Leliana said.

"Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet," Josephine cut in, cutting the argument short. "It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question. Which means…we can begin the steps to appeal to the nobility. Specifically, the remaining members of House Trevelyan who have not condemned or rejoiced in your existence."

"No," Adanith shook her head. "I'm no noble."

"Isn't Bann Amil Trevelyan your father?"

"Yeah, he is, but uh—we aren't nobility," Adanith said. "Not really. We're not considered nobility, nor do we consider ourselves noble. We can discuss this later."

The topic made her uncomfortable, all the wicked bravado against the Chancellor seemingly gone.

"There is something you can do," Leliana said. "A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable."

"Why would someone from the Chantry help a declared heretic?" Adanith asked.

"I understand she is a reasonable sort. Perhaps she doesn't agree with her sisters. From what I know her, she is a kind soul and not the sort to involve herself in violence. You'll find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe."

"In the meantime, let's think of other options. I won't leave this all to the Herald," Cassandra said. She began to clear the war table and dusted off the map. "We can begin to scout the Hinterlands…"

And with that, the work finally began.

* * *

He didn't see much of Adanith after the meeting, with her departure to speak with Josephine about her family. It sounded complicated.

So, he left.

He returned to his office. Time passed as he read and skimmed through reports, signed and approved. He was good at that part; the reading, the directing, the commanding, making the rapid-game decisions that could determine the outcome of a battle.

Cullen could hold his own in a fight, should there be a need for one. But he knew with the severity of his withdrawal, his health could rapidly decline as a result. He was better at strategy. Safer for him, wiser for others.

He watched as the soldiers continued to practice. The bite of the valley air was partially complemented with the bright afternoon sunlight.

"Commander, look out!"

Someone reacted before he did and before he knew it, he was yanked out of the way from an awry arrow.

He staggered back, and nearly lost his balance until his rescuer pushed him up to regain it.

"Shit!" Cullen cursed out. "Who did that?!"

"It was an accident!" Harrison called out. "I am so sorry, Commander!"

"Watch your _aim_ , Harrison!" Cullen snapped.

"Yes Commander Cullen ser!"

"Damn, Riss! That was the worst fucking archery I had ever seen in my life!" Yelana, an archer from Redcliffe called out.

"My grandmother has better aim and she knits sweaters for cats!" another recruit added.

"Are you alright, Cullen?" Lieutenant Tristan asked as he yanked the arrow out of the snow. He was always the most easy-going of his lieutenants with him, one of the former Templars that had joined him after Kirkwall.

"I'm alright," Cullen huffed out. He fixed his attire and went to his right gauntlet strap, an old habit he had whenever he was out in the field. He could deal with losing the coat but not his armor. "I always have to assume I'm target practice with archers."

"We should repaint brighter targets on the dummies," Tristan mused. "Something shinier."

"That just might work," Cullen chuckled. "Something shiny that isn't my armor."

"Until then, I'll make them practice," Tristan saluted. "Commander, Herald." He sprinted back to the archers.

Herald?

He turned around to see Adanith who had apparently been the one to pull him out of the way.

"I take it Harrison is a new recruit?" Adanith asked as a greeting.

"Yes," Cullen huffed out a frustrated breath. "Youngest son of the local herbalist. And dare I say, he is quite green around the edges."

Adanith laughed. "How goes training?"

"Plenty newcomers as you can see, some retired, some returning...Yet none made quite the entrance you did."

"Yeah...accidentally breaking the sky tends to do that."

"Varric mentioned that you're from the Marches."

"I am," Adanith nodded. "Born and raised in Eastmost. This is my first time in Ferelden. Well, it's my first time in the country at all."

"Really?"

"I traveled to the Conclave instead of my sister. It's so much colder than I expected."

"Yes, it's quite cold here. I'm from Ferelden myself, from Honnleath. Though I haven't been back here in almost ten years. I spent a long time in Kirkwall," Cullen clicked his tongue. "Longer than I would have liked."

"How is Kirkwall?" Adanith asked.

"Well, while I was there, the Qunari occupied and then attacked the city, the viscount's murder caused political unrest, relations between mages and templars fell apart, an apostate blew up the Chantry, and the Knight-Commander went mad…" Cullen shrugged. "Other than that, it was fine. Not much to it. There's a rebellion that happened there."

"They talked about Kirkwall in the Conclave," Adanith said. "How you sided with the mages and with the Champion before he vanished."

It was only the surface of it all. There was how he sided with the mages, how he continued to side with the mages, and how Hawke wasn't as disappeared as people thought he was.

There was also how he turned a blind eye as Hawke slipped into the city and helped mages escape during the peak of the unrest. Cullen saw nothing, said nothing. He let this form of obliviousness serve as a shield, rather than a weapon. Hawke knew it too, as did his companions.

But Cullen said nothing of his whereabouts, even when Cassandra continued speaking about her search for the Champion.

Varric was right. Hawke had been through enough.

"My biggest regret is not putting a sword through Meredith's heart sooner," Cullen said. "It would have saved more."

"So, why would you want to side with the Templars now?"

"Because the Order has resources and training required for a threat as big as the Breach. I just want to assure the safety," Cullen said. "Do you like the Templars?"

"No, messere," Adanith replied. "Not at all."

"I do understand your-"

"Wariness?"

"Aversion," Cullen said. "The order has many things wrong with it. The Templars have resources and trust from the people. And that's what the Inquisition needs. Trust. "

Adanith slipped into silence, as if she mulled over the statement.

Then she let out a laugh. "You still think I'm guilty!" she exclaimed.

He had to move fast before he did something very, very, very stupid. Like blurt out how pretty her eyes were. Or how he saw Leliana immediately begin to relax the moment she began talking back to the Chancellor. Or that Cassandra got excited a little bit. Or that Josephine flustered at her gaze. That it was already less than a cumulative hour since he'd interacted with her and she was already making an impression on everyone, even himself.

_Maker, she's pretty._

"I-I do not think that," Cullen said. He felt his face redden. No, no. He's supposed to hate her. Damn it.

"So, a little guilty," Adanith concluded. "I save your life from a deadly assassination attempt, and you still think I'm a little guilty."

"Well, Lady Trevelyan, you speak quite boldly," Cullen said. "For that was hardly an assassination attempt and just a novice with bad aim."

"No need for Lady," Adanith said. "For I am no noble."

"Should I address you by Herald, then?"

"I am no Herald either."

"Then what do you have with your name? With who you are?"

"The only thing I have to my name besides truth is compassion for all, and a bone to pick with plenty. Which I assume can be considered more dangerous than a breach."

Before he could respond, he saw Jim wave him over.

"Ser!" he called out. "We've got a report!"

"I should leave you to your duties," Adanith grinned. "Try not to get assassinated while I'm gone."

She left. And ultimately, Jim was the one to approach him with the report.

Cullen hated her. He hated her.

He was sure of it.

He definitely hated her. He had to.

For there were a lot of things just as dangerous as a breach, and the feeling that was the opposite of hate, the complete antonym of it, was one of them.


	3. A Walk Through Muddy Memory Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's where I know you from!” Varric exclaimed. “I won a bet off you beating Patrice Grant from Starkhaven!”
> 
> At that, Adanith grinned. That damn Starkbastard didn't see her coming. “Wow! I'm...quite surprised you remember. That was ages ago.”
> 
> “How could I forget?! That was one of the best fights I have ever seen in a Tourney,” Varric said. “You earned me ten sovereigns.”
> 
> It had been a fight to remember. The taunts, the shouts, the cheers. Mahanon, who was normally quiet, had been shouting for her in the crowd. Ellanna's voice was hoarse from screaming. Her sisters, her parents, her fellow East Marchers that travelled to see her, were shouting for her. Screaming for her. And their support gave her the edge she needed. The broken nose hurt, as did the scar, but the victory declared for her was the sweetest sedative for any pain she felt.
> 
> She had fought until the very end. Grip tight on her daggers, Eastmost teal ribbons secured in her hair, and fury in her veins as one blow and swing was one blow and swing closer to victory. And she earned her coronets. And she earned the right to gloat.
> 
> After all, only other victor won back to back, and she won it three times.

When Evelyn Trevelyan had died in the Circle Tower of Ostwick, it was the most devastating loss that Adanith had felt in the world.

But outwardly, she could not show the grief. 

It was Max who was in pain at hearing of his sister’s death. It was him who was collapsing on the side of the chantry and it was her that was holding him, comforting him and crying along with him. Evie had been cremated and her parents had tossed away the ashes, per the chantry’s words.

But now, it had to be put aside.

She had to speak to House Trevelyan and use her words and her voice to show where she stood. She stood with the mages. She stood with Evie, with her mother. She stood with what was right.

With a deep breath, Adanith walked to the podium to speak to House Trevelyan.

* * *

The memory resurfaced that night like Adanith were watching it on stage before her. 

Memory? Dream?

What the hell was that?

It was real. It had to be real. The sash was there, the grief was there. All of the emotions she felt that morning were there. 

Breakfast was served in the tavern and she had an hour to kill before the meeting and she ate it quickly, food settling into the empty stomach along with a feeling of having been through this before. She  _ had  _ been through this before. Something about the walk from her quarters to the tavern, to the cold briskness of the snow had been so familiar. 

It was a strange sort of feeling to be in Haven and to be so busy, as if the explosion had not happened. They called her the busybody of Eastmost, always doing the most for everyone but herself. It was in her nature to be busy, but only because she made it so. She needed to be busy. She had to be busy.

She supposed it was the magnitude of the loss that had her numb; hope was lost for a war to end. Almost all of House Trevelyan. Mahanon, Ella. Max. She lost her best friend.

Was it selfish to not grieve for the near-total loss of House Trevelyan? Was she allowed to only grieve for her friends and cousin than everyone else?

Adanith had to stay busy. 

Or else, the loss of all she held dear would destroy her before the hand did too. 

Adanith stepped out of the tavern and the warmth was suddenly gone. She shuddered and adjusted her scarf along with the layered coat, the closest she could get to Eastmostian teal green and her white scarf. The crown braid was redone and new fabric strips woven instead.

After being allowed to carry weapons again as a member of the Inquisition, Adanith tied the sash and teal to the handle of her daggers. So the luck of Ellana and her home would always be with her. 

“Mornin', Herald.”

Adanith looked up from her feet to see Varric outside of the tavern.

“Varric,” Adanith nodded to him. “Were you waiting for me?"

"Not for long. Got asked to be a messenger to take you to the Chantry." 

"I won't get lost this time," Adanith chuckled. "I know my way."

"It's also...my idea. Come on. Would you...walk with me?"

Adanith could refuse, but...it would be nice to walk with someone who didn't see her as a miracle of Andraste.

"Sure," she shrugged. "How are you today?”

“I should be asking you that,” Varric said. “What with declaring the Inquisition anew, becoming Herald of Andraste. Usually, people try to space that out....”

“Yeah, well,” Adanith continued her pace, her boots crunching snow rather than sediment sand. “I’m not most people. I…think.”

Her left hand continued to tremble, almost like it had with the two rifts she had to shut while going to Redcliffe. Oh, had her hand burned so much. Like fire and ice water was being poured at once. It always buzzed with a quiet sort of energy, like it would when she leaned on a limb for too long. It didn’t hurt as much like it had done on the first day, thanks to Solas. And now, it would only get stronger. Deadlier. She had to balance the risk of life and death with her own hand. 

And Varric noticed. “Does the mark hurt?”

_ Yes. _

“No,” Adanith stuck her hand into her pocket. “It just runs a little colder under the glove, that's all. And this place is very cold.”

“Well, that makes sense. You’re an East Marcher,” Varric said.

“I am,” Adanith said. “We’ve been over this.”

“Your accent is the most obvious thing.”

“Oh.”

“Not that it’s a bad thing!” Varric said quickly. “It’s great! Hearing you reminds me of being back home again. I knew a lot of East Marchers, but not as way East as you. I don't think Eastmost's even on the map!"

"It is, you just have to look very closely."

"Then there’s the slight judgement of Ferelden customs that aren’t your own,” he listed. “Hey, it’s alright. Judgement of the South is part of being a Marcher, it’s what we all deny sharing.”

“I’m not judging,” Adanith said.

“See?” Varric said. “You got it already!”

At that, Adanith had to laugh. He did have an amiable sort of energy, the kind she could trust some. It helped that he was from home, from the Marches.

“I know I keep bringing the Marches up, but it's just...I know you from  _ somewhere. _ This is seriously your first time ever in Ferelden?”

“Yes,” Adanith said. “I’ve never left South of the Marches.”

“You must have at least traveled within them,” Varric said. “Did you ever go to Kirkwall?”

“Once or twice.”

“Did you ever go to Hightown?”

“No _._ I mostly stayed in the East. Only times I went anywhere was for tourneys.”

“…. Wait a damn minute! Were you ever in a tourney?”

Well. That was a surprise.

No one other than her own party recognized her from the Tourneys since she arrived in Ferelden. While part of it did make sense, due to the breach in the damn sky, she would assume that there would be  _ some  _ recognition to her name. A minimal kind, at least. 

“Yes, actually,” Adanith blinked.

“That's where I know you from!” Varric exclaimed. “I won a bet off you beating Patrice Grant from Starkhaven!”

At that, Adanith grinned. That damn Starkbastard didn't see her coming. “Wow! I'm...quite surprised you remember. That was  _ ages  _ ago.”

“How could I forget?! That was one of the best fights I have ever seen in a Tourney,” Varric said. “You earned me ten sovereigns.”

It had been a fight to remember. The taunts, the shouts, the cheers. Mahanon, who was normally quiet, had been shouting for her in the crowd. Ellanna's voice was hoarse from screaming. Her sisters, her parents, her fellow East Marchers that travelled to see her, were shouting for her. Screaming for her. And their support gave her the edge she needed. The broken nose hurt, as did the scar, but the victory declared for her was the sweetest sedative for any pain she felt.

She had fought until the very end. Grip tight on her daggers, Eastmost teal ribbons secured in her hair, and fury in her veins as one blow and swing was one blow and swing closer to victory. And s he earned her coronets. And she earned the right to gloat.

After all, only other victor won back to back, and she won it three times.

And now they were gone. The ghost of Mahanon's hug was suddenly there and gone. Maxwell was there for the battle and had given her a bouquet of white roses, the unofficial flower of Eastmost. And now...

Adanith stopped that painful feeling and focused on the conversation instead. As much as she could. 

“It did not matter where that bastard trained,” Adanith said to Varric, with false bravado and wicked smile. “Patrice was a warrior and warriors get in over their heads the moment they have a shield.” 

“You got that right. When warriors are out getting the glory, we’ve got to be the ones to go up ahead to pick up the slack in a fight,” Varric said.

Someone of like mind, then.

“Yet they’re always championed as the leader and the heroes.”

“Still, you beat the guy on the three trials. Sand, ice and stone. Who taught you how to fight like that?”

“My dad,” Adanith said. “I've been wielding daggers since I can remember. Training on sand is the best way to adjust your feet to any kind of footwork. I liked it more than my sisters and I’m also a little crazier than them, so I trained harder.  Winning enough fights with the idiots in the square that were too foolish to underestimate me was also good practice." 

By sea, Adanith would just walk outside to the tide and practice with her father. Weights tied onto her legs, on her arms, anything to gain muscle. Rain or shine. By ice, her mother would freeze water on the tiled floor of their patio with a freezing spell and Adanith would practice there. She earned bruises from the slips and fights. And falling. And falling so much. 

It was a struggle to fight, but it was with honor. Her old man didn’t go easy on Adanith just because she was his youngest and she did not hesitate just because he was her father. 

They neared the entrance of the Chantry when the conversation dwindled. Her hand still stayed in her pocket.

“You know what's weird about all this, Varric?”

“What could possibly be weirder than the broken sky?” 

“Being at the Conclave kind of...felt like being at the tourney,” Adanith said. “You know, the buzz before the competition, when all of us were arriving before opening day. Everyone in one place, everyone wanting to fight each other but also not, half of us drunk and ready to lose a coin on Wicked Grace...all we were missing was the bales of hay for targets.”

“We can totally recreate that. The recruits don’t even have to be drunk enough to miss targets,” Varric said. “Just get the Commander in the open field, and he’ll be enough.”

Adanith laughed.

And though her heart still ached, it did feel a bit lighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Special mention for Doc Name for this chapter: ch1??---ch1!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
